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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28878942">blue minor misery</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rvnwyn/pseuds/rvnwyn'>rvnwyn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Gen, Ghosts, Ghosts and Emotional Conversations, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, my second entry to the ghosts and emotional conversations tag, no plot just supernatural events that are never explained, trigger warning for suicide! will be heavily discussed so take care of yourself please!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:36:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,400</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28878942</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rvnwyn/pseuds/rvnwyn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>His senses kick in unexpectedly, warning Bruce of someone close by and he whips around with a hand reaching for the Batarangs in his belt, ready to face the threat in less than a second. He finds himself staring at the Batman, standing casually two feet away from him, arms relaxed at his sides and a blank expression on his face as discernible as it is through the cowl. The suit looks considerably different than his current one, decorated with bits of gold and gray that stand out against the sole black shades on his own. Bruce lets his hand hover for a few seconds, and then puts it down and relaxes.</p><p>“Are you a ghost?” the Batman standing in front of him asks, with a tone that almost seems nonchalant, as if this were an everyday occurrence.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dick Grayson &amp; Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>blue minor misery</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>TW FOR SELF-HARM AND SUICIDE<br/>I tagged it a bunch but repeating again: This story contains discussions of a suicide attempt. Take care of yourself first please!<br/>The title is from a song, as is tradition. Frightened Rabbit - Nitrous Gas. Again, TW self-harm for the song as well.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As he wakes up, the first thing he feels is the soft silk sheets surrounding him. Bruce opens his eyes slowly and squints them back again instantly as the intruding sunlight hits his face. He waits for his eyes to adjust. It’s strange. He never sleeps with the curtains open.</p><p>He rises up slowly and instinctively takes a look around the room. There is no breakfast waiting for him next to his bed. Alfred must not be here. He is overcome by a sense of dread that he cannot shake off, and it makes him uneasy in a way that sets an ever-growing pain in his chest and heightens the sensation of sharp needles poking at his head.</p><p>Now that he thinks about it, he cannot remember how he got to the bed. He comes to the conclusion of a concussion, which is the most probable event to have occurred previously. It would explain the headache that only seems to grow as he comes to his senses. He places his feet on the cold tiles that send a shiver through his body and stands up slowly, only to come face to face with his reflection. He watches himself falter.</p><p>There has never been a mirror in this room.</p><p>He tries to recall what he can about the previous night. He tries to remember where he had been, which streets he patrolled, who he had been with. The more he thinks, the more his head pounds, and he fights through it to recall something, anything. Nothing comes to mind.</p><p>He keeps staring at himself. His naked torso is covered in scars of all kinds. Some are old, from the days his suit was built to favor agility rather than withstand excessive damage. Some are newer, a jolt of electricity that the suit was too weak to endure or a gunshot wound that tore through it. He tilts his head. The small scar near his right eye he received from Lady Shiva as the tip of her sword ripped through the cowl is still there to remind him how close he had gotten to losing his eye. Strangely, its familiar sight brings him comfort for the first time.</p><p>He walks to the door and grips the handle. The uneasy feeling that has been festering inside him ever since he woke up only grows bigger each second. Before he has any time to hesitate, he gets out of the room into the halls of the Manor.</p><p>He steps into the brightly lit main corridor and spots the large and familiar painting at the end of the hall right away. It has been sitting above fireplace as long as he can remember, his mother sitting in the armchair holding him gracefully and his father standing proudly next to his wife and son. There is another painting hanging next to it. He can’t make it out.</p><p>He tries to reach the paintings, he walks faster and faster and he feels like he isn’t moving at all. The corridor distorts around him. The paintings feel closer and further away at the same time, his father’s pictured frame now ridiculing him with each step. The pictures that line the halls shift with him. It makes his head spin, amplifies his headache in a way that makes him want to cry out for help. The knot on his stomach and the pressure in his chest prevent him from making any sounds and push him forward as he takes each step in the endless corridor. He sees Dick’s graduation photo somewhere for a split second. Jason’s smiling frame passes by, and Bruce is not sure if he sees it through the myriad of sliding photos or imagines it. It brings heartache.</p><p>He feels like the little kid he used to be after his parents died, roaming the corridors of the Manor like a ghost.</p><p>He wants to call for Alfred. He wants to shout his name as hard as he can and see him rushing in firmly to help him. He wants to sink down onto the ground and have Alfred put his hand on his shoulder, like he did when Bruce was little. He wants to whine and plead and hear reassurances only a child would believe.</p><p>He feels something encircle him and halts with a heavy breath to look down on his hands. He is met with the sight of black Kevlar, encompassing and wrapping his whole body in a protective shell. He is wearing the suit. His feet don’t feel cold anymore.</p><p>He raises his head to find himself face to face with the grand clock hiding his secret entrance to the cave. The corridor is gone, along with the painting and the pictures. Everything feels eerily silent for the first time, and the sense of dread that weighs Bruce down doesn’t subside. He observes the clock to see it exactly the same as it has always been. He looks to the sides to find that the matching mahogany bookcases are missing. He turns around.</p><p>There is no room. There is only the clock.</p><p>With the ease of a practiced motion, he reaches for the hands of the clock and sets the hour. He is relieved to hear the well-known sound of gears shifting and turning. After a second passes, the clock moves to reveal the familiar path of long descending stairs with the cold air from the cave breezing through to the hollow space.</p><p>He steps down and observes every aspect of the cave carefully, as if everything might disappear at any moment. He sees the Batcomputer and the proportionately smaller chair that proudly sits in front of the screens. He sees the giant dinosaur and coin still in their rightful place. There are suits lined up in glass cases not too far away, but he can’t make them. They blur and go out of focus as he tries to concentrate on them, and his headache gets so intense that he has to look away. The cave feels emptier, somehow, but he can’t place what is missing.</p><p>He goes down the stairs and his feet take him to the computer screens on standby. His instinct to research is immediately dissolved as he helplessly stares at the chair.</p><p>It isn’t his.</p><p>His senses kick in unexpectedly, warning him of someone close by and he whips around with a hand reaching for the Batarangs in his belt, ready to face the threat in less than a second. He finds himself staring at the Batman, standing casually two feet away from him, arms relaxed at his sides and a blank expression on his face as discernible as it is through the cowl. The suit looks considerably different than his current one, decorated with bits of gold and gray that stand out against the sole black shades on his own. Bruce lets his hand hover for a few seconds, and then puts it down and relaxes.</p><p>“Are you a ghost?” the Batman standing in front of him asks, with a tone that almost seems nonchalant, as if this were an everyday occurrence.</p><p>Bruce is silent. The Batman tilts his head uncharacteristically and squints his eyes through the cowl.</p><p>“You’re not a ghost,” the Batman firmly says. “You look older than I’ve ever seen you.”</p><p>Bruce puts a hand on his face and feels the touch of his Kevlar-covered hands on his bare skin. He is not wearing the cowl. He opens his mouth to say something, but no sound comes out. His throat is hoarse, and he has to stop himself from coughing.</p><p>“Try to ease your throat before you speak. This happens sometimes.” The Batman walks slowly towards him and hands him a glass of water that Bruce is sure he wasn’t holding previously. Bruce reaches for it as his instincts scream at him, drown him in a cacophony of voices telling him that something is wrong, that he must be dreaming or trapped, that he should try to escape.</p><p>Instead, he takes a sip.</p><p>The Batman walks towards the glass cases, his cape gently shifting back and forth behind him, even his slightest movements more graceful and nimble than Bruce could ever be. Through his stronger but still delicate steps in the huge suit, the swift movement of his arms, and the tilt of his head, Bruce recognizes him.</p><p>He takes a deep breath and calls out. “Dick?”</p><p>Dick continues walking at the same pace. “I have something to show you.”</p><p>Bruce hurriedly follows him to suddenly find himself standing in front of the large glass cases he noticed earlier, his son next to him.</p><p>Dick no longer has a cowl even though Bruce didn’t see any motion to remove it. His long hair is tied up like he always liked to wear it before Stephanie convinced him to cut it. There are lines on his forehead and the beginnings of crinkles on the edges of his eyes. He is staring at the suits on display, struck with a look of melancholy in a way that doesn’t sit right on his face. Bruce thinks it makes him look older than he is, even though he cannot discern this version of his son’s age.</p><p>Bruce turns to look at the suits that Dick is unmistakably observing. Jason’s suit stands exactly like Bruce himself had placed it many years ago, tall and proud. It was Jason’s second suit, the one that waited for him at home. Bruce remembers putting the creaseless and unharmed suit on display as he thought about how he had undressed Jason’s tiny dead body only hours earlier, taking him out of the Robin suit that was torn into countless little pieces.</p><p>Next to Jason’s suit stands his own. An older version, maybe from a decade ago. He wonders if Dick placed his suit here the same way Bruce did Jason’s.</p><p>“We found you dead near Old Gotham. You had bled out by the time I arrived. You were shot two times and fell three stories down.”</p><p>Bruce looks back at the older face of his son, his tone detached as if he were reading a coroner’s report, and painfully realizes that he remembers that night.</p><p>The first thing that crosses his mind is how very cold that night was, consuming the last remnants of his body heat away to leave his bones exposed in a ceaseless shiver. The shattered glass around him reflected the light emanating from the top of the Clock Tower that stood tall in the distance as he lied there, bleeding out of his torso that now felt numb, his blood corrupting the soft and white snow.</p><p>He remembers thinking it was fitting, that he would reach the end of his life not by saving hostages, stopping a bomb, or sacrificing himself for some other heroic act, but because of a reckless mistake he could have easily avoided if he had been careful. It was a miracle he had made it this far anyway. Most parts of the memory are blurry, but Bruce remembers staring at the Clock Tower for a long time, wondering if Barbara was inside, awaiting an update.</p><p>He remembers, clearly, debating in his head whether to ask for her help while he bled out.</p><p>He cannot remember what caused him to use all his remaining strength to reach for the cowl and make the call after minutes of quiet stillness. He cannot remember if he got to talk to her, if he could make any sound at all, but he remembers listening to Barbara’s voice as he slipped in and out of consciousness. He remembers waking up in the cave and seeing Alfred’s face stare back at him, reaching to pat his forehead with a damp cloth with a tremble in his hands.</p><p>“Alfred passed not long after you did.”</p><p>“I survived,” Bruce adds factually. “In my universe, I survived.”</p><p>“In mine, you never placed a distress call, so even after we realized you were missing, it took us a long time to find your body,” Dick says pointedly, his eyes fixated on the old suit, and Bruce feels a pang of guilt as realizes that Dick somehow inexplicably knows exactly what had happened differently, and why.</p><p>Bruce always knew he made everything worse for everyone after Jason’s death, which in turn contributed to the overbearing feeling of guilt and remorse that would not let go of him, the unscathed Robin suit he presented as a memorial mocking his mistakes every time he passed by. Jason’s death had shaken him so deeply to the core and brought back all the feelings of shame and sorrow he tried to bury for so long after his parents’ deaths. Everyday had become torture, and soon he went on patrols just to beat up henchmen and get beaten up.</p><p>They had fought a lot during that time. Some of their fights had been rooted in grief. Some had been out of frustration and helplessness. Some had emerged from the anger and hurt that Bruce had caused by taking the Robin mantle from Dick, and these had always been the fights Bruce felt the most regretful about afterwards. For the version of his son that was next to him, that had been the end of their relationship. Bruce had cut it off abruptly by bleeding out in some back alley.</p><p>Quiet moments pass and they continue to stand in front of the suits on display, like they are on trial before the ghosts of the past.</p><p>“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to take on the legacy and become the Batman? Did you ever think I would be good enough to carry on the mantle?”</p><p>Bruce only takes a second to answer. “You’re better than me.”</p><p>Dick turns his head to look at him for the first time, and the slight annoyance in his expression disappears as quickly as it came.</p><p>“I never meant to turn you into the Batman. I never wanted you to be a soldier. I wished for you to travel your own path, become your own man.”</p><p>Bruce watches Dick’s brows furrow a little, and even though he is decades older, it reminds him of the way he looked when Bruce wouldn’t let him stay past his bedtime or go patrolling on a school night. Even though there is slight irritation on his face, Dick’s voice is calm.</p><p>“Then why did you die?”</p><p>The bluntness of the question feels like a kick to his chest and Bruce feels grief seize him at an instant, like weights on his ribcage, aching for the life he left unlived. “I never meant to leave you. I…” He trails off and tries to remember when they spoke last before that day, what the last memory of them would be for Dick. He can’t remember. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>He apologizes, and he means it for a lot more. Dick doesn’t respond and the apology awkwardly hangs in the air as Bruce wonders if he has accepted it or not, and if it would make a difference at all.</p><p>“Do you still feel that way?” Dick continues with a small voice, his words insecure and pained. “Do you still want to die?” The pleading look in his eyes and the thin pursed line of lips remind Bruce of his own reflection, the one he spent hours staring at in the mirror and despising years ago. It hurts him, makes his heart ache to see his son suffering the way he did, when all he had ever intended was the opposite.</p><p>Bruce wants to promise him, convince him that everything will be alright. That he would recover with a single act of kindness and never feel the same way again. He watches Dick’s pained eyes, and he feels helpless. He opens his mouth and it makes no sound, preventing him from devising a symphony of beautiful lies.</p><p>Instead, he gives in to his impulses and closes the small gap between them at an instant to lay one arm around Dick’s back and place the other on his head. He feels Dick tense under his touch for a single moment, and then relax. Bruce makes small motions to stroke his oldest son’s hair, like he used to when Dick woke up from a nightmare.</p><p>“The feelings come back, sometimes. Nothing can truly make the hearthache disappear. I cannot promise you that.”</p><p>Bruce feels a set of arms wrap around him after he speaks, and they don’t feel like Dick’s. They are heavier, stronger, more calculated. He has put on more muscle and exchanged his agility for more brute strength. For some reason, this realization is what makes Bruce’s eyes fill with tears.</p><p>“No matter how strong you are, no matter how prepared and determined you are, this is not a feat anyone can achieve by themselves. That’s why I lost my path after Jason died. I was grieving and hurt and…” He stops to take a deep breath and holds Dick tightly as if he would disappear from his grasp. “…I thought I couldn’t hold on any longer. I was trying to do it all by myself. Then I accepted your help, Alfred’s help and I crossed paths with others. Because Tim was right. Batman needs a Robin.”</p><p>Dick breathes heavily. “You’ve really changed.”</p><p>“You helped me heal. All of you did.” Bruce feels him tremble and shake and wonders how much more surreal this is for him, seeing Bruce again after so many years. “I’m so proud of you, Dick. I always have been. You don’t have to do this alone.”</p><p>They stay like that for some time, a son holding onto his father he lost years ago and a father holding onto his son that he involuntarily put on the same path he walked.</p><p>Dick, as always, is the one who breaks the silence.</p><p>“Who’s Tim?”</p><p>“You will find out.”</p><hr/><p>As he wakes up, the first thing he feels is the soft silk sheets surrounding him. Dick opens his eyes slowly and revels in the warmth of the sunlight hitting his face. He gets up and looks at himself in the mirror.</p><p>It was only a dream, right? It must have been.</p><p>He walks down the corridor and takes a second in front of the two paintings that stare back at him. Thomas and Martha Wayne, with a smaller Bruce on his mother’s lap. The second one is their last annual picture from the holidays, one Bruce always insisted they take. Bruce, Barbara and Jason laugh and pose to the camera along with a younger version of himself, painting the illusion of an unbroken family.</p><p>He makes his way to the cave and takes a quick glance towards where they stood. He releases his breath loudly through his nose and shakes his head, then goes back to work.</p><p>It was definitely a dream.</p><p>He takes a couple of hours to make a thorough check of the various cameras placed throughout Gotham, update the files with the information he found during last night’s patrol and determines he should head out before the dark settles. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” he says, mostly to hear his voice out loud in the vast emptiness of the cave. Just as his voice rings throughout the space and jostles a few bats, he feels something shift behind him and he spins his head at an instant, almost like a little kid, excited to see his father again.</p><p>There is nobody there. Dick curses quietly and lays back in the chair, rubbing at his eyes. He’s not going crazy. He’s not.</p><p>He opens his eyes and leans forward to get up. That’s when he sees the small, folded piece of paper placed right in front of him. A piece of paper that definitely wasn’t there before. He feels his heart beating like it’s going to leap out of his chest, and he reaches for it without thinking. He can’t stop his hands from shaking as he unfolds it, only to be met with the familiar handwriting he hasn’t seen in years. The small cursive calligraphy, the narrow loops and the almost methodical distance between each letter makes him laugh involuntarily. It’s proof.</p><p>It's a list of names.</p><p>Timothy Drake. Cassandra Cain. Stephanie Brown. Damian Al Ghul. Duke Thomas.</p><p>Maybe Bruce was right. He didn't have to do this alone.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>some parts of the talk between bruce and dick was inspired by Detective Comics 725, my favorite issue of anything ever, go read it. if you want more of my supernatural ghost conversations check out my other fic 'my father left me an acre of land' in which *spins wheel* bruce gets to talk to *spins wheel again* his dead mom and dad! this is my favorite type of story to write and i think i might be the only one who enjoys them and by god will i write more even though they get like 15 kudos thanks everyone and take care!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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